Final Farewell
by Coofis
Summary: The young boy fingered an ebony strand, glowering solemnly at the image that frowned back at him within the mirror, eyes aglow with bitterness. Have you ever wondered what happened to the boyish bangs Vegeta used to have?


Final Farewell »

Summary: The young boy fingered an ebony strand, glowering solemnly at the image that frowned back at him within the mirror, eyes aglow with bitterness. Have you ever wondered what happened to the boyish bangs Vegeta used to have?

* * *

The corridors were punctuated with the echoes of voices, the indiscriminate chorus hemming in the small figure that could be seen slipping as discreetly as he could through the conglomerate of soldiers. Muscular physiques clad in armored regalia jostled for position within the ongoing hallway, and still the shadowy being took advantage of his unimpressive stature to maneuver within the raucous crowd. His thick brows furrowed as he ducked between two scaled creatures, and as they leered at him he forced his churning emotions into the darkest recesses of his psyche, retaining a neutral expression.

Harsh laughter pierced his concentration, and calls of "Watch it, monkey!" registered distantly within his mind. He scowled when a bold instep collided with his side, causing him to stumble lightly; desperately he ignored the mocking chuckles that bubbled toward him, and subconsciously his furred tail tightened itself around his compact waist.

He lifted his chin to maintain a semblance of regality, his true feelings shrouded behind cool indifference within the smoldering chips of onyx that were his eyes. In reality, however, a maelstrom was raging within, tearing at his heart with every step he took, crashing down in frothing waves upon his young shoulders. Clenching his gloved fists, he accelerated his pace, his boots tapping the floor in a soft rhythm.

His burly bodyguard emerged from his quarters and hailed the child Prince, but he grit his teeth and waved him away in dismissal, reigning in the urge to lash out in pent-up fury at the brusque warrior. Nappa watched him go with worry darkening his features.

Anguish flitted across his visage as his roaring thoughts spiraled into a climax; but it, too, was plunged back behind a cloak of stoicism, and he turned up his nose in haughty disdain for the distasteful indigo wretch that now sashayed toward him wearing a smug grin.

"Out of my way, Cui," Vegeta snapped absently, willing his wayward thought process to calm long enough for him to triumph in this brief exchange and exertion of wills.

Cui laughed – an irritating chortle, Vegeta observed with a demi-smirk – and folded his scaly arms, relishing in the formidable height he imposed over his rival. His face contorted in fiendish glee when he took note of the distracted state the child Prince was in. His last mission had ended humiliatingly and the fish-faced being wanted nothing more than to pummel his frustrations out upon the despicable Saiyan.

Vegeta noticed this transformation and immediately hardened his features, mustering the most hostile glare he could and pushing his dark contemplations to the wayside in favor of survival. Determined to arrive at his destination unscathed, he sent a threatening scowl in the soldier's direction and marched past, his scowl deepening when derisive cackles trailed his footsteps. Retreating into the depths of his mind, he let his inner reflections consume him.

He had been submerged in the gore of an average purge, tendrils of sweat framing his cheeks as the humid atmosphere of a planetary jungle beset him. The complexities of the ongoing mission served as a welcome challenge, and he could feel his power soar with every attack he threw toward the frantic ranks of inhabitants. He had just halted to rest from his efforts and was clutching a nutrition bar when his scouted beeped, signaling an incoming transmission from base.

The unidentified creature on the other line informed him bluntly that an asteroid had collided with his home planet. There were no survivors.

Instantly, he was thrown into turmoil. He barely managed a questioning _"oh"_ in as casual a tone as he could produce. Everything, everyone he had was gone. His father, his mother, his people, his throne…_everything_ had been decimated alongside his planet. He had no home. The only thing left were the snippets of memories he was able to salvage from the few years of uninterrupted happiness that he had experienced before being given to Frieza.

He wanted to break down. He wanted to crumble, to shut himself away, to give up, to _die_. What was the use of fighting for his freedom when he had nothing to go back to?

Now, as his steps led him to his cramped and blandly-decorated quarters, he felt the grief buckling and melting away to give rise to a surmounting hatred that tinged his eyesight red. It burned in the pit of his stomach, licking away at his insides, clutching at his soul. He had been stripped of all he had. He was a slave with an empty title – an empty title holding nonexistent sway over a dead race – and now, the only thought that gave him any sort of consolation was the intoxicating notion of _revenge_. It was all he had left to live for. It was the only way he could assure that no one would ever rule over him again. It was the only way he could avenge the lives of his family and his people. He had to defeat Frieza.

He slipped quietly through the dark room, his eyes shifting to the shadows that seemed to hover amid the corners – naught but soulless patches of inky blackness, but it was wise to assure himself of that fact all the same – and he was startled to find his own reflection staring back at him from the bathroom mirror, brimming with hatred. To see such vehement loathing devouring his irises frightened him, and in panic he masked it, but he had not yet perfected the art of deceiving himself; and the revulsion rose to claim the pools of obsidian once again, setting them alight with flames of animosity.

For a fragment of time, he perceived the abhorrence in his own eyes to be directed solely at him, and it cut at his heart like a knife. He cautiously put a gloved hand to his chest, feeling for the sticky warmth of blood; and when he found none his labored breathing hitched, then slowed to a semblance of normalcy.

His eyes narrowed, and his thick, bushy eyebrows angled downwards, combining with the sharp parabolic slope of his lips to create a disciplined frown. Childish bangs tumbled down his forehead, disrupting the menacing glower. His scowl darkened at the sight.

He had always taken pride in his bangs. They contributed a ruddy, youthful look to his features, casting him in a handsome light. On his planet he had been admired for his naturally striking appearance—

_My planet…_

In a fit of rage, he grasped one wild skein of raven hair, thrusting his face closer to the mirror. What did he need these bangs for? They made him look like a child. There was no room for immature children in Frieza's army. If he wanted to make a severe impression upon the stronger soldiers, he would have to look the part. How else would he survive?

He shook them out of his vision, but they draped back into place. A memory flashed through his mind as he distinctly remembered the first time he had become aware of his habit…

_At four years of age, the tiny Prince stood on the tips of his toes in front of his mother's vanity mirror, earnestly studying his reflection. His eyes twinkled with curiosity, much to the unspoken amusement of the slender maternal figure standing behind him. He turned his head, his bangs bouncing with movement; unconsciously, he shook his head to rid his eyes of the black hindrances that danced along with his every action. _

"_Mother, what's so special about the mirror?" He asked quizzically, at a loss as to why she would want to waste precious time observing what was found within._

_But the regal Queen was smiling, and she stepped forward to brush the bangs from his eyes once more, questioning, "Do you always do that?"_

"_What?"_

"_Do you always shake your head like that?"_

_He glanced up at her, and frowned when her smile widened. _

He had been confused, and then his mother had explained to him good-naturedly that when he became a man he could cut away the irksome bangs and rise to claim the throne. Now, he scrutinized the bobbing bangs in frustration, watching as they followed each turn of his head. A sigh escaped his lips, before abruptly halting as he made a spontaneous decision.

With hands that trembled lightly despite his resolution to complete the task at hand, he opened a nearby drawer and unearthed a pair of scissors from within. The young boy fingered an ebony strand, glowering solemnly at the image that frowned back at him within the mirror, eyes aglow with bitterness. Shutting his eyes momentarily, he lifted the blades to his forehead, briefly glancing at the distorted image of his face splayed morbidly in jagged streaks upon the sharp edges.

A single snipping sound punctured the silence, followed shortly by the dull thud of hair hitting the tile. Another _snip!_ followed, and then another. He settled into a hasty routine, each snip peeling away a piece of his old identity to reveal a new one.

When the deed was done, he reopened his eyes, and a smirk blossomed on his features.

Gone was the child. In his place was a menacing warrior, lithe yet venomous, small-statured yet ruthless. It was his final farewell to his old life – for he could never hope to return to that now.

_Farewell._


End file.
